Lurking in the shadows — on a groggy
gas lit night. He, who followed so many
to their deaths, in this age of the machine,
sits alone, bereft of sight.

In his mind's eye he sees the tender white crosses, -row-on-row,
glow deathly white on a whirlwind night of swirling snow,
he hears the creaking branches, catches a whiff from below,
of lying Lady Fortune a-floating on the breeze,
pleased he was, immensely: more fool he.

He shows himself in darkness –
to his fondest acolytes –
devotees of death and sin and misery –
on this blackest of coal-black nights.
His gross infirmity of mind
leaves us gasping in his wake:
such true and false lucidity
for bitter chaos' sake.
As far as his mortal eye can see:
on this deepest-of-deep — black nights,
sentient beings coagulate at the five-bar gate.
Hold your breath in tight, my lad,
cling to the merest tincture
of  belief in:
God's gothic visionary, grief,
or time’s ungodly, trinitarian thief.

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